


Lucky No. 13

by plastics



Category: Clerks. (1994)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Casual Sex, Codependency, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Porn Watching, Self-Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27467218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastics/pseuds/plastics
Summary: CAITLINYou're very protective of him,Randal. You always have been.RANDALTerritoriality. He was mine first.
Relationships: Randal Graves/Dante Hicks
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26
Collections: Flash With Benefits





	Lucky No. 13

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SegaBarrett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/gifts).



While Randal wouldn’t have wished this exact fate on Caitlin—more out of a lack of creativity than mercy—there was a sort of poeticism to it going down when and where it did. There were no laws in the employee bathroom after 5:14 p.m. A hole was a hole, a pole was a pole. Dante didn’t think head really counts, either, or at least not receiving it. The hypocrisy, Randal would never be over it. 

But Dante was his guy, and Randal his, and so it would go for the rest of their lives, as far as Randal could tell.

  
  
  


Dante didn’t handle being single well. It’s a fact that rested at the root of every shitty relationship that he let drag on too long. That, and having a solid handful of women wandering around validating that they could make you come covered a respectable amount of ground in assuring your heterosexuality. Letting the girl you’re supposedly in love with fuck a quarter of their graduating class then holding onto the flame, so to speak, for another four years after she’s rode of to Ohio eroded a lot of that ground right back into the open sea, but there’s only so much self-actualization you can spoon feed a man.

Point being, Randal knew what Dante was looking for when he slunk back to the Graves family basement about no more than two weeks after Veronica kicked his ass to the curb. 

“What will it be, _Farmer Brown’s Prized Cocks_ or _Bianca’s Bubble Buddies?”_ Randal asks. “Looking at the cover, I believe the buddies in question are her breasts.”

“How do you even find this shit?” Dante bitches as he settles onto Randal’s bed, back against wood paneling.

“It is quite literally my job to find, obtain, and catalog this shit. In fact, you should be grateful that I get first crack at them before the rest of the cretins in this town try to fit their dicks into the spool,” Randal says as he makes an executive decision and slides Farmer Brown into the VCR. He puts a buddy amount of distance between himself and Dante when he joins him on the bed. 

The intro is respectfully well-acted and constructed. They’re introduced to Farmer Brown himself and his daughter, a redhead with pigtails, daisy dukes, and a tied-up gingham top. A big step up from the farmgirls Randal and Dante went to school with, who were the sort to own several items of clothing with Confederate flags on them despite spending their entire lives in New Jersey.

By the time Betty Brown bounced down to the coop where her family kept the eponymous cocks, Randal and Dante’s arms were brushing. His bed creaked each time either of them moved. This was usually around the point where Dante tensed up or even stormed off on particularly dramatic days, but Randal knew Dante was really desperate when he let their arms press together from shoulder to elbow.

There would probably be something almost romantic—convenient, at the very least—if one of them could be right-handed and the other left-handed, and they could both maintain that last thread of deniability. As it was, they were both righties, and Randal had already built a lifetime of sitting to the left, so it was obvious when Randal shifted to shove a hand down the front of his pants. On screen, the cocks are being fed their breakfast, which was Betty’s pussy. It was no great challenge to jerk off to.

By the time the cocks are fucking her, two or three or four at a time, Dante has his dick out, too. A benefit of Dante’s self-centered nature was that his attention rarely extended outward enough to catch Randal sneaking a glance or two his way. He had a nice cock, urgent hands, and Randal appreciated the black fuzz that snuck up his stomach. Sometimes, Randal really missed high school hockey and having a built-in excuse to be buck-ass naked, swinging their dicks around four times a week. Randal had to work for those opportunities now. 

Another responsibility that Randal shouldered, being of the correct dexterity and position, was reaching across Dante’s lap once his breath reached a certain crescendo. He twitched, as always, but he didn’t move away once Randal got a hand on his cock. Dante was as familiar to Randal as his own dick by now, with the added rush of being responsible for someone else’s pleasant experience. It’s probably the sort of personal satisfaction that Dante argued came with good customer service, the capitalist sellout. 

Of course, maybe a pack of cigs and a hand job really was all people need to feel satisfied in life. Randal himself was certainly peachy as pie with his best friend’s dick in hand, his own humping into his useless left fist.

Dante came with an inelegant yet erotic series of high-pitched grunts, and Randal finished himself off with Dante’s come lubing the way. All in all, it was a very satisfying Tuesday afternoon. 

“I don’t know,” Dante started, “where the fuck you get off calling _me_ the pervert when this is the sort of shit you bring home.”

Betty’s cries had gone cartoonish on screen, as pornography was wont to do post-orgasm. With his clean hand—his less-sullied hand—he pressed pause on the player and dug out his designated towel. When he tossed it to Dante, Dante complained, “I don’t want your used come rag.”

“Then don’t. Send my regards to my mother if you run into her.”

Dante grumbled again but wipes himself down delicately with a clean corner before flopping down onto Randal’s bed. Randal asked, “Don’t you have work today?”

“After that bullshit last night? I am not going in today,” Dante said. “It’s probably not even legal to work a man this many consecutive hours.”

Dante had been off for at least twelve hours by then, and Randal knew that this was the start of his next pay cycle, but he was too proud to pick a fight right now. Sometimes, Randal felt like he could spit into Dante’s mother’s mouth right in front of him and get away other, other times, it was like breathing was too severe an offense. But that afternoon, Randal let himself squeeze onto his own bed, and, despite Dante’s complaints about heat and odor, they fit together easily.

“Do you remember Alicia Thompson?” 

“Barely.” A vague short, brunette blob image came forth, but that could just as easily be any girl Dante went after, the narcissist.

“Ran into her at the gas station. Might be getting dinner with her this weekend,” Dante said, voice smug but already getting long and clumsy. Randal tapped his arm supportively.

“Good for you, bud. Glad we haven’t learned any lessons about rebounds these last few weeks.”

”Oh, fuck off.”

With the rote hetero defenses out of the way, it’s easy to fall into a familiar sleep.

  
  


That time in the bathroom wasn’t a fluke, not really, nor was any time after or later. Randal, at least, knew that. He was here first, and he’s bent on being here last, too.


End file.
